Thieves in the Night
by Gina King
Summary: Failure was never an option. Hiding, it seemed, was. [and if the life of a foreign correspondent was not for Rory]
1. Not Strong

**Title: Thieves in the Night **– Completely ripped off from the title of one of my favourite tracks, _Thieves in the Night_ by Black Star.  
  
**Rating: R **- Because it will end up there anyway and I don't want to have to censor myself. Probably about a PG-13 right now, but I don't know the American rating system, so…  
  
**Author's Note: **Well this is my first ever attempt. It's rather dark, and I'm not sure if it's cliché because I usually stay away from the darker fics. I was tired of Perfect Rory who will end up with a Perfect Life and the inspiration (actually the initial image) randomly came when I was in Europe this summer. For now a one-parter, but if people want more, I'll try and oblige. Please review and feel free to flame. Thanks for checking it out! Oh, and no pairings.  
  
**Disclaimer:** Dude, if you knew how much my tuition was this year you'd hardly be asking this.  
  
**I. Not Strong**  
  
It was late.  
  
But that, of course, hardly deterred the crowds roaming Paris, sauntering down the Champs Elysées to see and be seen. Cafés were generously dotted with those who preferred the former, while twinkling lights advertised famous boutiques that stayed open to all hours. The buzz in the air was reminiscent of a clubbing district on a Friday night, not a classy avenue on a Wednesday at one in the morning. A frigid breeze cased the city, oblivious to the revelers, conscious only of heavy clouds that promised snow.  
  
Rory Gilmore's eyes were angled towards the bright noise, even if nothing in the scene actually registered. She leaned on a balcony, one of the higher ones in the area, her hands clutching the wrought iron to either side of her narrow hips, a slim cigarette poking out between two fingers. At a glance, she was a beautiful woman: tall and impossibly slender, with a curtain of dark hair framing a finely structured face and stunning blue eyes a contrast to pale, flawless skin. A second look, however, would yield a different story to the discerning observer.  
  
She was too thin. Her collarbones stretched her flesh into deep hollows, and her hipbones jutted against her filmy dress. When she shifted, the pale fabric folded so that you could see her ribs pressing shadows into the material. She was also too tense, her knuckles white from their grip, and her jaw contorted as she ground her teeth. Finally, and most telling, were her eyes. They were meant to be piercing, intelligent, perceptive, softened by a grin or by sorrow; overall, they were beautiful and were meant to convey emotion.   
  
Rory Gilmore's eyes at twenty-six were blank. They hadn't the distracted look of one whose mind was elsewhere, nor even the glazed look of one who was unaware. Quite simply, there was no indication of thought or any activity at all behind the initial distraction of their colour. They held no emotion, evoking disquiet instead.  
  
She jerked suddenly, almost imperceptibly, as her cigarette burnt down to her fingers, the embers stinging. Instead of adjusting for its shortness, she let it drop, watching impassively as the orange light grew smaller, until the wind swept it away, out of sight.  
  
"Lor, baby, it's cold outside. Won't you come back in?" A smooth voice danced up to her though its owner remained shadowed in the balcony's doorway.   
  
Her head turned slightly to acknowledge the request, but when she spoke, her voice was dismissive. "Not yet."  
  
The dark form was motionless a few minutes more, then turned back and disappeared into the dim lights and smoky haze.  
  
The cold didn't bother Rory. Like a clichéd character out of the hundreds—thousands, really—of books she'd read, she embraced the cold, and for the same reasons they did: to dull her senses, to freeze her flesh to the point where it felt as little as she did inside. The idea fascinated her, as much as ideas could these days, that there was a point beneath her skin, some depth, where physical feeling left off and only inner feeling remained. Inner feeling, like the sensations you choose to acknowledge within you because you care. She had long deadened those, and now longed to stifle the nerves that caused feeling above them. So that maybe, one day, she would feel nothing at all, and live blissfully unaware that pain — or pleasure, that deceptive foil to pain that only served to heighten it — existed.   
  
That was the plan, for now. It was an experiment, really; at least, that's what she told herself when the old Rory started to reemerge. She thought of her almost as a separate being, Old Rory, a younger sister whose naïveté had to be curbed by New Rory's worldliness, and who needed protection from the world itself.   
  
  
_Eyes, everywhere eyes. She's always had a weakness for them, for the stories they tell, believing them still to be a window to one's soul. In fact, she dislikes sunglasses for that very reason, because they act as shutters, and to her those people are like a book in a glass case, minus the value factor one assumes to be associated with books in glass cases, of course, though retaining the frustration factor. What she means, of course, is that they're more or less useless to her. Her thoughts are interrupted by a particular pair of eyes. Their levity of is at odds with the sight before her, anyway, a common defense mechanism that isn't up to the current assault.   
  
The girl is about ten. Like all the others, her clothes are well worn and her hair hasn't seen soap for weeks, nor her skin for that matter. This girl is pretty though, with a sparkle in her eyes and a sweet smile on her lips, standing out, a glowing spot in a sea of destitution. She approaches the child, intrigued and slightly relieved, preparing the Portuguese phrases she memorized on the flight down. Finally, she thinks, a young street girl who seems approachable, willing even.   
  
Suddenly, the girl's face contorts into a grimace that, as a shoulder is bared and the other hand beckons her closer, she realizes is meant to be seductive. That would, in fact, be seductive if the girl didn't look as though playing with dolls and learning cursive writing should be her main concern.   
  
Horrified, she recoils. Hands are grasping at her handbag, her pockets, her clothes as she stumbles away, trying to escape an image indelibly imprinted behind her eyelids. Sounds crash around her abruptly: a child crying, two boys fighting viciously over a coin someone has carelessly tossed, and here and there, little girls smacking their lips in an appalling aping of women twice their age who ply their bodies the world over.   
  
Fighting the urge to retch, she fails to hold back her tears. Weeping, she runs.  
_   
  
Rory's eye twitched. A flash of pain, like a shooting star on a starless night, dashed across her eyes before she closed them. They reopened instantly, and, spinning on her heel, she stalked through the doors, abandoning her experimental remedy for a known cure.  
  
Because, most of the time, she smothered Old Rory in a fine dusting of white powder.  



	2. Only Aggressive

**Title: Thieves in the Night **– Completely ripped off from the title of one of my favourite tracks, _Thieves in the Night_ by Black Star.  
  
**Rating: PG-13 **- It will end up at an R eventually. I'll assume it's PG-13 for now, but I don't know the American rating system, so…  
  
**Author's Note: **Thanks for the reviews, folks, and sorry about the ridiculous delay. I wasn't satisfied with the ending of this chapter, and I'm still not really, but here goes nothing. Also, I forgot to thank Ria for being my beta. I love you, kid! So yeah, read and let me know what you think. Thanks!  
  
**Disclaimer:** The cheque's in the mail, I'll let you know when they cash it.  
  
**II. Only Aggressive**

A beautiful crown moulding adorned the ceiling of Rory's room. It wove a delicate pattern of curves from the walls inward, all reaching toward the centrepiece, an intricate light fixture of dangling crystal. The curling plaster reminded Rory of a labyrinth, a subtle maze through which one could wander without ever knowing how gently one was being guided towards one's fate, until a dead end was reached. She could gaze at it for hours on end, carefully picking her way down various paths, following them until they stopped, always at a distance from their destination; so far, none had ever attained the chandelier. 

"Room service!" The brisk knock at the door paused Rory's reverie long enough to wonder who had sent her breakfast.

"Non, merçi," she replied, flatly. 

"I'm sorry, _madame_, but it has been ordered," came the rejoinder.

Pursed lips the only sign of her frustration, Rory tossed off her covers and padded into the suite's sitting room, pausing at the door only long enough to open it. She proceeded to the bathroom without a backward glance at the little man who entered, his eyes deftly averted from the sight of her naked form disappearing around the corner. Stepping onto the cool marble tiles, Rory, too, avoided her reflection in the mirror, heading directly for the shower. 

Carelessly turning the knobs, she welcomed the gush of water, literally drowning out the sounds of her meal being arranged in the other room. As the steam rose, she relaxed, once again safely ensconced behind a muffling of senses and hidden from any unwelcome probing. The hot water was an attempt to sear away memories of the flesh, stories the pores of her skin could tell about the previous night. She was trying to recall and forget events simultaneously, ingrained habit and new defences struggling against each other. Despite the combined efforts of water and mind, images flashed before her closed eyes. 

A sumptuously adorned penthouse. Men and women, interacting, drinking, smoking. Sound—laughter, mostly bitter and hollow. Cold air. _Eyes_. An attractive man, tall and refined. White, a long, slim white line. A hand offered and—she winced—taken. A dark room, more laughter—hers?—and a bed. Lips, hands, heat—

With a gasp, Rory flung her head back from where it had fallen forward, eyes closed, letting the water splash on her face. Hands pressed against the wall to hold herself up, her entire body shook. From passion, maybe, or the after-effects of a night of indulgence, or the cold water that now coursed in rivulets across her skin. Slightly frantic, she shut off the shower and stepped back into the Roman bath-style room, thankful that the mirrors were still fogged up. She grabbed the nearest towel and stalked out.

The man had vanished, leaving behind an elaborate tray of covered dishes. Rory removed the silver lids, tossing them off to reveal a feast of fruits, breads, _confitures_, cheeses and meats. The food looked delicious, but she merely nibbled at a piece of melon, eyeing the fresh pot of coffee, prepared American-style.

That was Old Rory's vice. New Rory had enough without it.

Instead, she lifted each plate carefully, checking the undersides of the elegant ceramics. Her frustration grew with every dish inspected and she resisted the temptation to drop them on the floor, knowing that she oughtn't piss anyone off too much. Finally, only the coffee pot remained, and she wasn't far enough gone in desperation to ignore the irony as her fingers found a small, plastic bag attached underneath. Nearly crying with relief, and all the more distressed by the emotion, Rory dropped to her knees in front of the tray and gently tapped out two small, green pills. She paused, then added a few more, leaving the bag nearly empty. Without hesitation, she tossed the pills back, downing a bottle of water to ease their journey. She remained kneeling, fists clenched and eyes squeezed shut, not hearing the tinkle of the crystal chandelier, nor feeling the slight draft, simply waiting for relief. Waiting, waiting for.... 

—"Fucking _hell_!" A familiar voice.—

... darkness.

* * *

"Elle doit passer la nuit, monsieur."

"Mais—Elle récupérera?"

The answer was lost as a cart of some sort rattled by outside. Rory fought to open her eyes. They felt swollen, as though she'd cried herself to sleep while experiencing allergies. She didn't have allergies, however, and though she remembered the last time she'd cried all too well right now, it wasn't recent. Grinding her teeth, she tried to raise a hand, intending to wipe the sleep from her eyes, only to discover her movement hindered. Panicking, she managed to open her eyes a crack, only to be dizzied by the sight of her arms and legs, tied to the bed. Restrained. 

She closed her eyes briefly, willing the blood to re-circulate through her head, then reopened them. Observing her condition passively for a moment, Rory considering the slender but firm-looking bands circling her wrists and ankles. Another heartbeat and she was struggling wildly, flinging herself back and forth, pouring her terror and frustration out in a soundless shriek. The bed shook, slamming into the expensive equipment flanking it, and the bedside tray flew across the room with a clatter. Her restraints hardly stretched.

A nurse suddenly dashed in, alerted by the racket Rory had caused. She glared at him as he tilted her head back and calmly forced her mouth open, depositing two pills. Trying to spit them out, she found her efforts made futile by the grip he had on her jaw, which he maintained until she swallowed. His task accomplished, the nurse moved aside, rearranging the room, and gently admonished her. Within seconds, she relaxed, and felt a familiar fog rise in that nebulous region between inner and outer feeling. 

Her slow smile disturbed the nurse, though he couldn't pinpoint why as he gently shut the door behind him. After all, how was he to guess at her thoughts, currently amused by the irony that a very similar poison to that which had landed her here was being used to further subdue her?

* * *

He slumped against the uncomfortable seat, hands sunk deep in his pockets, eyes bloodshot and clothes rumpled in a way that made obvious their recent use as pyjamas. The comforting, efficient sound of the hospital was weakened here, in the waiting room, by evidence of what efficiency had no control over. A man and a woman sat across from him, wound up so tightly he doubted they were breathing. They were joined at the hand, their white knuckles as painful to see as the distant look in their eyes. A few seats further down sat an older woman, absently holding her coat together over what was obviously a nightgown. He imagined she'd been here all night, waiting, ears attuned to the sound of any potential harbinger. Her skin was darker, but her knuckles were the same shade as those of the couple opposite him, and her eyes saw the same terrifying sight, staring blankly, oblivious to the strands of grey hair lying in their path.

In a sense, he felt guilty because he knew he didn't belong. Rory was going to live. She had lived the last time, and yet again the Fates had been kind enough to spare her. He wasn't sure whom he should thank. He wasn't even sure if it was his place to do so. It had been made extremely clear to him how little he mattered.

They had had an agreement. He looked out for her—as much as one could be said to look out for another while keeping them awash in any chemical they desired—and she allowed him to. His supply was endless and, lately, it seemed her appetites matched. But then, he understood. He knew what it meant to be where she was, if not the finer details, and he realized that if he refused her, she would simply flee. Likely somewhere lacking any friends and anyone to drive her to the hospital when she lost control. In fact, he was sure of that now, since the slightest pressure on his part had resulted in her current state, imprisoned on a hospital bed, twitching. 

He and Rory both knew that he had been biding his time, hoping to work his way close enough to not only catch her when she fell, but get a firm grasp on her and tug her out, eventually. Perhaps he'd gotten impatient or frustrated; perhaps it was the influences he'd been under, no better than her own, really. The point was he'd pushed at the limits of their unspoken agreement and she'd reacted.

Since her arrival in Paris, they had shared his apartment, platonically. He would keep his mouth shut about almost everything, commenting only on occasions when he gauged her mood to be receptive. Those, admittedly, were rare, and he winced, recalling their last conversation. They had both been high, enjoying a quiet evening together, when a remark of Rory's had sparked a memory. The more he questioned her, the more agitated she grew, until they were yelling at each other. By morning she was gone and he was left with the terrifying task of hunting her down in the most touristed city in the world.

A hunt that had ended that morning, five weeks later, on the second floor of the De Crillon Hotel. The suite wasn't under her name, of course, nor that of her alias, but Jean d'Eau, a character whose sense of humour he would like to permanently dent. His breathing became ragged as he remembered the panic he'd felt upon flinging open her door. Rory had been on her knees, smiling, an overturned bottle of water forming a dark circle in the carpet at her side, silver domes of various sizes strewn around her. She had sat back on her heels, appearing peaceful for a short moment, before tilting over in slow-motion to sprawl between the tell-tale baggie and the stained carpet, her blank gaze fixed on the dancing crystal chandelier.

"Monsieur et Madame Gerard?" A soothing voice snapped his thoughts forward six hours. The couple stood hesitantly, and at the nurse's indication, followed her from the room. 

He decided at that moment, ensconced in a stiff, green hospital chair, the buzz of expectant air resounding, that he would never, ever relive that feeling.

A few seats down, a middle-aged woman shook her head with sympathy, regarding his white knuckles and vacant gaze.


	3. Not Free

**Title: Thieves in the Night **– Completely ripped off from the title of one of my favourite tracks, _Thieves in the Night_ by Black Star.  
  
**Rating: PG-13 **- Yeah I have no idea.   
  
**Author's Note: **I think I might hate this chapter, but I was tired of reading it over and just want to post it and have done; move on. So... read it and tell me what you think if you will, I would appreciate what feedback you have, positive or otherwise. Thank you.  
  
**Disclaimer:** Computer? Check. Digital camera? Check. Cell phone? Check. Nearly four years of engineering? Check. Rights to or ownership of_ Gilmore Girls_? Nope.

**III. Not Free**

"I can't do this anymore."

The words spun around in her head, as though giddy to find the entire space free. It had been nearly an hour and they had yet to settle into a form she could comprehend or cope with. She noticed that her hands were clasped and forced them to relax. Smoothing out the blanket covering her legs seemed a tolerable distraction until Rory remembered that her compulsive leveling of wrinkles had led to her tightly linking them in the first place. Annoyed, she splayed her fingers on her lap, trying to appear relaxed, maintaining defenses despite the weak vantage afforded by a hospital bed.

_I can't do this anymore._

He was standing at the window, unmoving, his forehead pressed against the glass, hands buried in pockets. The images assailed her peripheral vision, despite her refusal to look at him. His jeans were stained, complementing the hole in his t-shirt, and his hair showed no sign of the requisite half hour he usually spent grooming. Stubble roughened his cheeks, matching the dark circles under his eyes. They were open. She had seen him looking more unkempt and she had seen him looking more refined. Something in his stance, however—the bowed shoulders or the way his chest was drawn in to round his back or the sheer stillness of what had to be an uncomfortable pose—something bespoke a degree of frailty she'd never witnessed. 

Rory might have wondered what he saw outside, what activities passed before his sightless gaze, had her head allowed any thought beyond his admission. She would have wondered what caused the fragility apparent in his every line. But only one other phrase could vie for attention in that pulsating void.

_He is leaving me._

At some point, she had registered that he was giving up on her. After inflicting an initial stab of pain, the recognition was banished and its wound went unheeded. The realization that she would be left alone was more difficult to ignore. Terror had left her breathless as the concept grew in her mind, a vacuous bubble pushing all other thought to the fringes until only his words remained, taunting her with their carefree twirling. 

_I can't do this anymore._

Different words pushed at her lips, pulled off a script she had stored somewhere, called forth by his statement as adequate responses. A reflex action prompting her to echo the dialogue of fictional characters. 

_Why not? _

_Don't go. _

_What happened? _

_Do what? _

_I'll change. _

_It won't happen again._

They were all pathetically laughable; patent lies, questions already answered. All except one, and those two words would never cross her lips. 

_"What the hell were you thinking? Were you even thinking? What—what the fuck is wrong with you? What in the fucking world were you thinking? Just answer me that, give me that goddamn much for Christ's sake." He stops pacing and faces her from the foot of her bed, clasping the metal bar at its end to keep still._

_She stares at her hands, spindly clouds of white against the sky blue sheet pulled over her legs._

_He throws his hands up in frustration. "I don't know if I can fucking do this anymore!"_

_"Do what?"_

_"Don't give me that shit, Rory."_

_"What happened?"_

_He stares at her, but she hasn't moved, not a muscle other than to offer the cheap sentences that seem to irritate him more. Resuming his angry pacing, he pauses near a chair by the window. Casually, he grips it and flings it against the wall. "Stop fucking with me!" he shouts over the loud crash. "I can't take it!"_

_"Why not?"_

_She can pinpoint the moment he understands. He stills, head dropping forward in defeat as he realizes what she is doing, what she is saying, and why she's saying it. Minutes pass before he returns to his position at the foot of the bed._

_"Rory, please, talk to me," he pleads, leaning in. His voice takes her aback. He's not one to beg, never one to ask a favour. She draws a shaky breath and lifts her gaze to her feet; small, azure mountains against a horizon of denim. _

_He waits, suddenly patient. Her action has been taken as encouragement, she knows. More time elapses, people and meals rattling by outside the room on creaky wheels. Coming around to sit at her side, he takes her hand in his. The simple gesture fills her eyes with tears, and she tenses, desperate to dull the dizzying emotion flying along her veins faster than blood. He takes no note of her reaction, simply rubbing his thumb along the back of her hand soothingly, his eyes lowered._

_"It won't happen again." The whisper is faint and she hates herself for the weakness it reveals._

_"Rory..."_

_"I'll change, I will." This time, she hates herself for the lie._

_"I—I don't know, Ror. I don't know if I can—"_

_She squeezes his hand and he glances up. Her eyes can't meet his, still fixed on her feet. The words never rose in her mouth, never came near her lips, but her unconscious movement betrays her._

He hadn't moved. A halo of fog framed his head, his warmth generating it as if to shield him from the cold urban wilderness without. She stared openly now, aware that it no longer made a difference. This time, where her eyes went or didn't had no effect.

"I need you to talk to me."

His words had the power to still her thoughts, and they settled back, eager spectators at the special screening of her life's newest twist.

"I need you to tell me why you're here, how you got here, okay? That is what you have to give me." 

_I don't have to give you anything, _Old Rory wanted to rebut. The audience would lean forward in anticipation.

He fiddled with a strand of his hair, twisting it nervously. "You see, Rory, they're not going to let you go without my permission. They'll keep you here as long as needed, because you're a threat to yourself and they know of only one person capable of dealing with you and if I'm unwilling then they'll take it as their responsibility. I don't want that, and you don't want that, but—" he cut off abruptly. 

_Fucking coward,_ Old Rory piped up, surprisingly vulgar. Edges of seats would wobble precariously.

"But," he continued, turning toward her, "unless you open up, I will leave." Finality. The pocketed hands, the direct look, the set of his tired jaw: they dangled it before her, taunting the ultimatum threateningly.

_You can't blackmail me_, Old Rory was aghast. A collective gasp would break the silence, viewers expecting closure. 

She never said a word, though. New Rory had stifled her well.

Instead, she countered his torment with an expressionless gaze, aware that it would cut through him. Tears, she hadn't expected; she noted absently that cruelty was called forth as easily these days as her mother's wit. Wincing, a grudging twist of her lips acknowledging karma, she decided that this poorly written melodrama had carried on long enough.

"Take care of yourself," she handed him these final words, gratitude and dismissal with a side dish of have-a-nice-fucking-life. Sorry about the copper platter, the silver one has a dent, and don't worry about returning it, I have eight more.

He merely shook his head and walked to the door. Every step echoed in the hollow room, smothering the beating of Rory's heart to her own ears. Reaching for the doorknob, he paused, and everyone—Rory and the detached audience that was her thoughts—tensed at the familiar scene. Next, they knew, was a final, impassioned effort followed by some form of reconciliation; or the moment of reflection would become bitter and empty, punctuated only by the shutting of the door and the receding pad of footsteps. 

"You know how to reach me. I leave in a week." Option B ensued quietly.

Dissatisfied, the theatre sat back. It would have to be a compromise, they supposed. Bored, Rory's thoughts slipped off for rest, leaving her alone with the sound of her pulse.

Idly, she wondered whether the next morning would again dawn upon her swollen eyes.


End file.
